Inside Eternity
by SeraphJewel
Summary: Sylar was trapped in a prison of his own mind. His own personal hell, and there is no escape. Or so he believes.
1. One

**One**

The streets are quiet today.

I used to be able to hear a pin drop from miles away, but I lost that power long ago. I strain my ears against the silence and meet with nothing. Not even the rustle of the breeze or the twitter of birds.

New York City in silence. It's unnatural.

Sticking my hands in my pockets, I start to walk down the street. My eyes move from one building to another expecting doors to open. Nothing. I'm walking down the middle of the road, which is disturbingly empty without cars to clog its lanes.

It feels like one of those apocalyptic movies. Except those usually do have cars in the street. Empty ones, yes, abandoned by people desperate to flee the city. No matter what the mass exodus scenario there would be some sign people once lived here. The cacophony of abandoned pets, perhaps, whining for their masters. Or smashed glass where burglars took advantage of absent police.

But this? This empty shell of a city? What could have happened to cause that? Where did everyone go?

I need to find answers. It's my gift- my curse. I always hunger to know more, to understand.

The subway is empty, too. The zoo. The prisons. All of the buildings are still here. New York City without New Yorkers.

But that can't be. There has to be someone _somewhere_. I find a payphone and dial a number. All I hear on the other end is static. I go to the nearest electronics store and turn on all of the television sets. Static.

I admit I'm starting to feel concerned.

"Hello!" I call out. My voice reaches out until it touches the sky. Nothing. "Hello!" I hardly recognize my own voice. It feels alien, like the rest of this place. "Is anyone here? Can anyone hear me?" No answer.

I break a window with my fist. The pain of the glass cutting into my skin shoots through me, but as soon as I pick out the shards my fist starts to heal. No one comes to see the source of the noise. No one even cares that a man just punched through a window.

No one. Nobody. Nothing. No answer. Static.

They say that Hell is a place of eternal torment. Fire and brimstone, thirst and pain, horrors beyond any nightmare. They talk of screaming, agony, and things you can never escape from because there _is_ no escape.

They know nothing. Where I am now is the true Hell. This silence, this emptiness, this horrible shell of a city… This is worse than any place of torment religion could think up.

There is no escape from this. I understand that… much sooner than I would wish.


	2. Two

**Two**

Libraries are excellent sources of information. I've always wanted to visit the Morgan Library and Museum. It's such a fascinating place. The amazing art, the expansive literature… My mother never had the money to take me. Now I stand in front of the building eager to go inside.

The place is just as I always imagined. I go to where they keep the newspapers hoping to find some answers to how the city became so empty. The very first paper I choose…

Couple brutally murdered in their home. The Walkers. It's an article detailing one of my murders. I quickly put it away and pick up another.

Mechanic found dead in her workshop. Artist's mutilated body found in his loft. Woman found dead by her coworkers. Dead. Dead. Dead. Every single newspaper I find has an article about one of my murders.

How is this possible? This can't be right.

I try different countries, languages I don't even understand. I still see my face and it doesn't take a knowledge of language to figure out the meaning of the articles. With shaking hands I tear them to shreds.

There are no answers here.

I have to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The internet? I go into an office building. It's quiet here, too. I turn on the nearest computer. Blue screen. Not even one of those annoying screensavers. I click the mouse and type frantically over the keyboard. No response.

The coffeepot isn't working, either. This place really is Hell.

Maybe I need to get out of the city. See if there are any answers beyond New York.

No cars, no subway, no buses, no ships, no planes… It's a long trip on foot. But what else am I going to do?

On the third day of my journey it rains. I wait it out under the protection of a hotel lobby. The sound of the downpour is like a sigh of relief. It's been so quiet here I'm grateful for the noise.

A rainbow glitters in the sky. No global flood.

I make my way to the Brooklyn Bridge. Excitement energizes me and I start to run. I'm almost there. I don't know what I'll do when I'm on the other side; I just need to put distance between myself and that nightmare.

The building I see when I slow down… The New York Stock Exchange? What the hell?

That's impossible. I crossed the bridge. I _crossed it_!

I find it again. Walking this time. Measuring every inch. I stop. New York Stock Exchange.

Of course I can't walk out. That would be too easy. Hell would never release its prisoners. I rest there, so tired I go to sleep there on the cold floor.

There are no dreams. That would be a kind of escape. I don't feel rested when I wake. I should have expected as much. I lay there listening to the sound of my heart beating against my chest.

What do I do now?


	3. Three

**Three**

Wanting a white Christmas always seemed childish to me even when I was younger. Yet when I wake and see a fine layer of white covering the city, it makes me feel… It's a nice change of scenery.

I walk outside and notice that the air isn't cold. Neither is the snow.

I spend the day shaping snow with my hands. In time I have a snow person. I fill the city with them.

Evening comes and I go to Rockefeller Center. The Christmas tree glows, the only light for miles. It's so beautiful.

The next morning when I wake it's all gone. The tree, my snow people… Not even puddles left behind. Yesterday the city was full. Now I am alone again. It gnaws inside me, leaving me raw and aching.

There are no guns here for me to blow my head off. Slitting my wrists and neck do no good: I heal too quickly. I try to hang myself and manage to pass out, but when I wake I'm free from the noose. Drowning and suffocation yield similar results.

I can't die. I knew this already but the idea has never been more frightening.

It's New Year's eve and all I want to do is get plastered drunk. But after consuming literally all of the alcohol in the city, I'm still sober.

I hate the holidays.


	4. Four

**Four**

There are fifty-four cards in a deck including the Jokers. The absence of wind makes it easy to stack them on top of each other. With enough of them I make houses on the street. I leave them there hoping they won't disappear the next day.

But of course, they do.

I tear open the packaging on every Hot Wheels toy and set them up in a recreation of a typical New York traffic jam.

The traffic clears up overnight.

Dolls of all shapes and sizes are set up around the city. Some are on park benches, some sitting in telephone booths, some waiting in the subway, some at the zoo. I even get stuffed animals to put in cages.

It takes me a long time to populate the city. Once I'm finished I walk through it to fix the image in my mind.

Sleeping is a mistake because when I wake up, the city is empty again.

There are enough Legos for entire cities that I can put together. All the places I've always wanted to visit. Rome, Athens, Sydney, London, Tokyo… Empty cities inside an empty city.

Empty cities that fade into nothing the moment my eyes are closed.

There are paint supply stores all over the city. I've seen artists turn buildings into works of art. Draping cloth across skyscrapers is easy enough and spray-painting alleys allows me to channel the rebellion I never tapped into as a teenager.

It's too bad I can't find a camera that works in this place. I would love something to remember this by.

Because it too goes away.

How do you make love stay? A better question would be how the hell do you make anything stay? I can't even line up toy cars without them disappearing once my back is turned.

This place, this Hell… It won't let me have anything permanently. I build things up and they vanish without a trace.

So instead, I destroy. I break windows and smash statues. Shattered glass litters the streets. So many broken things.

I can't help myself: my instinct is to fix things. I put everything back in its place.

Maybe that's what happens to everything else. Maybe I'm already getting used to the emptiness, and seeing the city full makes it broken in my eyes.

Or maybe I'm just trying too hard to make sense out of Hell.


	5. Five

**Five**

Five months, twenty-two days, sixteen hours and five minutes. That's how long I've been alone so far. I've tried everything imaginable to fight the loneliness. But nothing can act as a substitute for another human presence.

All of the apartments are empty. I've searched them thoroughly for signs that people once lived there. I would even be happy to see rotting food. I see furniture and appliances but nothing else. Nothing that assures me I'm not alone.

I sit in one of the empty apartments staring at the floor. Something about this apartment feels very familiar. The layout, the furniture… The faint scent of chai tea.

Mohinder.

I leave the apartment in a hurry. Somehow it never occurred to me that everyone in the city being gone would include people I know.

The next apartment I look into is a sad shell. Almost completely empty except for a mattress and a police scanner.

Peter.

My apartment is exactly the way I left it. Even the dried blood on the floor depicting an explosion in New York is still there. I get a wash-cloth but the blood remains.

I don't know why I expected anything different.

I climb into my old bed and sleep. Maybe like Rip Van Winkle, I'll wake and find that everything has changed. I've tried everything else.

Six months, one day, thirteen hours and forty minutes. I get up and face another day.

And another and another and another. Like the second hand of a watch ticking endlessly. I can almost hear it.

Wait. I _do_ hear it. My old shop is here, and inside are clocks of all shapes and sizes. None of them are working properly.

I have to fix them. Every single one.


	6. Six

**Six**

Clocks of all shapes and sizes clutter the room. Some are running too fast, some too slow. I pick up one and hold it up to my ear. I drop it on the table. I pick up another and hold it up to my ear. I drop it on the table.

I need to listen to every one and fix them if they're broken.

_Clank_.

That's not a clock. I listen, barely breathing.

_Clank_.

I didn't imagine that. Metal on concrete. What is that? Where is it coming from? I go out onto the streets. Hell does not allow hope, yet I hope all the same.

"Hello?" I call out. Searching. Hoping. Scared to hope. The noise comes again and I turn. And he's there. Peter. "Peter?"

He can't be here. Of all people, _he_ can't be here. But he is, and he's moving toward me.

"Is that really you?"

"I came to get you out of here." His voice, so familiar and so alien. I thought I finally understood this place, but I don't understand this.

"It is you, isn't it?" I reach out to touch him, to feel that he's here. The material of his jacket is rough against my fingertips. My hungry eyes rake over his face. He looks just as I remember. "I thought I was alone here, that everyone was dead. What are you doing here?"

"I came to drag your sorry ass out of here," he says. "Now, let's go." Still a naïve dreamer. He hasn't changed at all. I almost laugh.

"There is no getting out of here, Peter. I've tried. For three years."

"Three years?" He repeats the words. "What are you talking about? It's been three _hours_." I stare at him, the words sinking in. None of this is making sense. But then it hits me: this isn't really Peter. Of course not. Why would he of all people be here to give me company after all this time? Hell isn't so kind.

"Wait a minute. You're not… really here. You're not real." It's painful to realize this; I can feel the hope shattering inside me. "This is my mind, isn't it?" I realize. "This is my mind playing tricks on me as part of my punishment, isn't it?" Why am I asking a hallucination? But I'm angry now. Angry at myself for hoping, for believing in this. Angry at him for being a figment of my imagination, for showing up and making my Hell worse. "You think I'm gonna let you taunt me? You stay away. If you follow me, I will kill you! Do you understand me?"

I start to run. I need to get away from this. I can hear him running after me shouting my name. He's persistent, even as a figment of my imagination.

"I swear I'll kill you," I snarl at him. "Get out of my head."

"Calm down," he says, his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "I'm telling you the truth. I came to take you out of here."

"Why do you keep saying that?" Peter would never help me. That much I'm certain of. But he's still here. He's not disappearing. I start to think he's really real.

"I went to Parkman's house to look for you," he explains. "He put you here. This is a dream."

"It's not a dream!" I shout back. "This is real."

"You really don't understand that this is all just a nightmare?"

"Hell, yes, it's a nightmare," I agree. "Three years completely alone."

"Not years," Peter corrects me, "_hours_. All right?" What the hell does he know? He hasn't been here to live them all. He doesn't understand things the way I do. "Parkman trapped you here."

"Parkman? That's impossible," I argue.

"Is it? What's the last thing you remember before coming here?"

"I remember… wanting my life to change," I answer. "Thinking I was going to spend all of eternity alone."

"Exactly," Peter nods. "And here you are." Peter is starting to make sense. He's putting my hope back together piece by piece. "Look, I've got Parkman's ability. I can take you out of here."

"Why would you want to do that?" I challenge him. "The brother of the man I murdered coming to my aid?" Make sense to me, Peter. I never could understand him completely. Tell me how you work.

"Because I need you to help me," he answers. No, it still doesn't make sense. "Look, I could leave you here to rot, but I need you to save her. My friend, Emma." Still not making sense, Peter. "In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

"No." I shake my head, though I almost laugh again. Of course. Peter and his dreams. He dreams he can fly and jumps off a building. He dreams of a hero and runs to a villain. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm not the savior kind," I remind him. "You should know that better than anybody."

"It's gonna happen," he insists, "and you're gonna save her." He's so determined and stubborn. He actually believes in this. I couldn't talk him out of his dreams of flying, so this time I don't even try.

"Fine. You really think you can get us out of here? Let me see you try. Go ahead."

He won't do it. Three years and I never figured out a way. It wouldn't be Hell if it were easy. I already understand this but I need Peter to see it too.

Peter touches my shoulder. I feel the warmth of his hand through my shirt. Nothing happens.

"See?" I give him a look. Told you so. "We're not going anywhere. We're trapped here, forever." I don't even try to be apologetic.

He's stunned, then slowly the horror creeps into those hazel eyes. He understands.

Welcome to Hell, Peter.


	7. Seven

**Seven**

I finally accept that Peter is real. He still hasn't disappeared yet.

He's going through the escape phase. I watch him as he tries all the same tricks. I sit and wait for him to come back. The first time he left I panicked, but then I breathed again when he popped up at the Stock Exchange.

"Done yet?" I ask him.

"No," he huffs out stubbornly. "There's a way out of here. We just have to keep looking." We. I love that word.

"Take a break," I tell him. "I want to show you something."

"Show me what?"

"Just come on." I start to walk and to my great surprise he follows me. At a distance, but it's a start.

We go to Central Park. The weather today is pleasantly warm with a light breeze. I lead Peter through the park at a leisurely pace. He doesn't speak but I don't mind. The silence of two is different, somehow.

I stop at the very center of the park. Peter stands next to me.

"What the hell is this?"

"A gift," I answer proudly. "Do you like it?" I glance at him but he seems to have lost his words.

We're standing in front of a statue. Of course Central Park is populated by many statues but this one is special.

"It's Peter Pan," Peter realizes.

"Your favorite story growing up," I nod. I almost feel like smiling. But Peter isn't smiling.

"How did you know that?" he wonders.

"How could I not?" I retort. "You made Mom read you that story every night until you learned how to read by yourself."

"How do you know that?" Peter's voice gets an edge. I recognize the signs of anger.

"I remember."

"You _remember_?" Peter grabs me, getting in my face. "Nathan remembers! Not you! Understand?" He wants a fight. I can see it in his eyes. He wants a reason to hit me.

"I understand," I answer. He pushes me as hard as he can. Then he turns and walks off.

He won't go far.


	8. Eight

**Eight**

We have palm trees now. I sit underneath one with sunglasses shading my eyes and pretend I'm in Florida. Peter walks by on one of his escape attempts and I expect him to comment on the strange new plants. But he just keeps walking.

The statue of Peter Pan is still standing in Central Park. Maybe he's upset about that.

How do you make things stay in this world? I still don't know but Peter's presence makes a difference.

I go into the library to pick out a book. I need something to do while I sit outside and watch Peter stubbornly try to escape. Although I'm convinced he's as trapped as I am, I still like keeping an eye on him. Knowing Peter, he'll somehow get himself into trouble even in an empty city.

I decide on Life of Pi and settle down under the shade of a palm tree.

Peter tries everything I tried. Watching him reminds me of my own desperate search and I fight to hide a smile from behind my book. My favorite is when he comes back dripping wet.

"I see you tried to swim for it," I comment with amusement. He gives me a withering look and squelches away. I feel laughter bubbling out of me for the first time in years. It feels so good I can't seem to stop until I run out of breath.

Peter doesn't sleep in his apartment. I think it upsets him to find it here. I feel the same way about my old apartment. But Peter doesn't use the thousands of other empty apartments in the city, either. Nor does he use the beds in empty furniture stores or ones set up in the hotels.

Does he sleep at all? I ask him but he doesn't give me an answer.

He hasn't spoken to me for weeks. Giving me the silent treatment for a few days I can understand, but this… After three years of silence I can't stand this. I have to think of some way to get him to speak with me.

I walk through the entire city looking for ideas. Whatever it is needs to be special. Not just another book but something that really seems like Peter.

And that's when I find it.

9th Wonders.

Perfect.


	9. Nine

**Nine**

Things are changing here. Hell isn't supposed to change. For three years I lived in silent monotony. Then Peter shows up. Now I can watch the sun set over the dunes while it rises in the city and a full moon glows in the distance. I can sit under palm trees and visit Peter Pan.

Oh, and the wall. That's still here too despite Peter's efforts of breaking it down.

I sit close by to keep him company. I remember how it felt all those years I was alone and Peter can't be alone like I can.

"I started a new book," I tell him as I settle down. "The Pillars of the Earth."

"You read it before," he grunts as he swings the sledgehammer. He still thinks this place is just a prison of the mind. But he hasn't seen the libraries full of books I couldn't possibly have read, or the hotels I've never been inside, or any number of things existing in this world.

I don't think he's bothered moving ten feet from the wall since he discovered it. I bet he even sleeps next to it.

"Isn't the ground uncomfortable?" I ask him when this thought crosses my mind.

"It doesn't seem to bother you," he says, shrugging.

"I meant to sleep on."

"You sleep on the ground?" he asks. He actually stops working on the wall to stare at me. Now that I have his attention I want to keep it. I worry about him putting so much focus on that wall.

"Sometimes. Grass can be surprisingly comfortable."

"What are you doing sleeping at all?" Peter wonders.

"I get tired," I answer flatly. D'uh, Peter. "Don't you get tired?"

"No," he huffs out, turning back to the wall. My lie detector ability doesn't always work here but in this case, I think he's lying. I think he works himself so hard so that when he does sleep he won't have to dream.

I can understand that.

Days later he's still at the wall. All this time and I don't think he's taken a break. Not even to get a drink of water. He's working too hard.

"That won't work," I tell him.

"What?" Peter turns to me, gasping for breath. I can see the sweat gleaming on his face.

"You're trying to kill yourself with all this work." I stand up so I can look him in the eye. "It's not going to work. We can't die here."

"You think I'm trying to kill myself?" Peter frowns at me.

"It wouldn't be the first time." In an instant he has me by the collar, shoving me hard against the wall. It winds me but I don't fight back. I know he wants me to. He doesn't get yet that I don't do that anymore.

"I _never_ meant to kill myself! When I jumped, I thought I would fly! And that's Nathan's memory," he adds with another rough shove.

"Actually, I was thinking of when we first met," I correct him coldly. "I have memories of my own, Peter. Not everything is about Nathan." Peter stares at me, and takes a step away so I have breathing room. I half expect him to pick up his sledgehammer again but he doesn't.

He sits down to stare at the wall. After some hesitation I sit next to him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. He looks at me. Doesn't say a word. Oh, well. It's a start.


	10. Ten

**Ten**

Today is the anniversary of Nathan's death. I can feel it- or maybe Nathan is reminding me. Either way, I shouldn't tell Peter.

I mentioned the time off-handedly once and he didn't protest with his "this isn't real" argument. More recently, he asked how long we've been here. Months, I told him. He didn't disagree.

I really hope he doesn't ask me now. But I still think I should do something for him. Peter doesn't smile or laugh nearly as much as he should. If I can get him to smile, then maybe we can both make it through the anniversary.

Peter isn't at the wall when I get there. It's nice to see he's finally taking a break. I work quickly so the surprise will be ready when he returns.

When Peter comes back he bears witness to the most creative graffiti New York has ever known. On one part of the wall I've written the words "Kafka was here". Another part reads "All work and no play makes Peter a dull boy". But my favorite part takes up a large section of the wall, centered where Peter keeps hitting it with his sledgehammer.

"I will not beat senselessly against a brick wall" it reads, over and over. Until finally at the very bottom, in big letters: "FU WALL! UR GOING DOWN!"

I can hear him laughing and I smile. It's a wonderful sound. He smiles at me and I give him a little nod.

On Peter's birthday, I find a Doc Savage comic book for him and a stuffed toy dog that reminds me (or Nathan) of Izzy. As we sit together on our roof I ask Peter to tell me a story about his dog even though I know them all.

We don't celebrate New Year's eve. We can't get drunk, so what's the point?

I keep looking for ways to make Peter smile. I don't know if it's Nathan or me who works so hard to see Peter happy.

His apartment is so empty I decide to fill it with Star Wars memorabilia. That gets a smile to flicker on Peter's lips. I put the statue of Rocky Balboa next to the Brooklyn Bridge and Peter's smile gets wider. His laughs are harder to come by, but I have plenty of time to coax them out.

Later I find the plush Izzy in my apartment. Peter must think I need the company more. The gesture makes me smile.


	11. Eleven

**Eleven**

Peter is still working himself too hard. I worry about him. He gets so focused that sometimes he forgets to take care of himself.

Once he fell asleep against the wall. Worried he would wake with a stiff neck, I helped him to the ground and gave him my jacket for a pillow. Of course when he woke he went right back to work.

All I can do is take up a sledgehammer and help him.

I take breaks, and I force Peter to do the same. I make him go on walks with me around the city. Two years together and sometimes I still worry he'll disappear if we don't stay close.

How do you make love stay? Build up a wall that will keep it near you.

By now I've gone through almost the entire library. I read every book that's always fascinated me, and a few I know Peter likes. I keep coming back to The Pillars of the Earth. It centers around the building of a cathedral. But that's not all the story is about.

"There's a sex scene in this book," I mention to Peter casually. "Want me to read it to you? I know you haven't gotten any in over two years."

"Yeah?" Peter turns to face me. "And when's the last time _you_ got laid?"

"It's been a while," I admit vaguely. "So… do you want to hear the scene? It's as close as you're going to get to the real thing."

"Shut up," he snaps, but I just chuckle and go back to reading.

I don't know it happened, but somehow Hell began to feel like home.

Peter and I sit on our roof drinking water bottles and laughing as we act out scenes from old television shows. We walk through Central Park to visit Peter Pan and Alice. We dip our bare toes in the East River. We knock our sledgehammers against the wall.

I deserve aloneness; I know that. Yet Peter is here. Just when I needed him, he showed up. I can't imagine this place without him. Is that why he stays?

Or is it because he's just that stubborn?

Peter runs his fingers over the wall, trying to feel where our sledgehammers have made contact. Even from where I stand I can see that the wall hasn't changed.

"Not even a chip," he sighs out wearily.

"Peter, do you know what the definition of insanity is?" I ask him. He raises an eyebrow at me and I continue: "It's when you do the same task over and over expecting different results."

"Then I guess we're both insane," he concludes. He says it so matter-of-factly I crack up laughing.

And then, miraculously, Peter laughs with me.


	12. Twelve

**Twelve**

Hell is a lot more accommodating than I would ever expect. For example, all I have to do is think about Peter and I can be near him no matter where he is. We are usually together but it comes in handy those rare times when we're not. The only thing is I can't seem to sneak up on him. I try but he always looks like he expects me.

"Hi," he says without an ounce of surprise, or "What took you so long?" when he feels like being a smart-ass.

"Long time no see," I answer when he's in those moods.

Our third year together passes. I'm not sure if I should remind Peter of that. He gets annoyed whenever I mention time, I think because to him it means he has failed to be a hero.

He pushes himself too hard. I don't know if I can be a hero, but I want to try so I can carry some of his burden.

One day I go to the wall but I don't see Peter there. I find that strange. He almost never leaves unless I make him. I think about him and find myself standing in Central Park. Peter is visiting the statue I gave him.

"Hey," I greet him, and of course I don't startle him. He was upset when I first showed him the statue but now he comes by a lot. He will never admit that he likes it because it came from me. Stubborn.

"Hi."

"You okay?" I ask. He shrugs in answer. "I hate when you do that," I complain.

"Do what?"

"…Nothing. I was just thinking out loud." I stick my hands in my pockets, biting back a smile at my own wit. I wonder if Peter gets the joke?

He doesn't smile, so I'm guessing not.

"Peter, what's wrong?" I ask in concern. My hand moves and begins combing through his hair. He doesn't pull away.

Slowly his eyes slide up to meet mine. It feels like he's asking me something. I can't understand what he wants from me. I can take apart a watch, but even after three years Peter is a mystery.

"Thanks," is all he says. Slowly I pull my hand back. Peter gives me a smile and walks off.

Why do I feel like I missed something?


	13. Thirteen

**Thirteen**

I decide to go to the wall early and surprise Peter with my dedication. But when I get there, Peter is already swinging his sledgehammer. Has he been here all night?

Without a word I take up my hammer to join him.

We get a good rhythm going between us for a few hours. Then Peter starts to slow before finally stopping. He hardly ever does that without my encouragement so I stop too, watching him.

"I can't do this anymore," he announces, and drops his hammer on the concrete.

What? Peter walks off and I follow after him.

We end up on our roof. Peter isn't sitting on the ledge this time, thank god.

"How long has it been?" he asks me, and now I _know_ something is wrong: Peter hates it when I bring up that subject. But of course I answer him anyway.

"Three years and four months." Peter nods as if I've just confirmed his worst suspicions.

"That would be six for you, wouldn't it?" He turns to look at me. "Six years and you still don't…" He trails off, letting out a sigh and running his fingers tiredly through his hair.

I don't like seeing Peter this way. He looks so defeated and helpless; I can almost see the cracks in his spirit. Gently I reach out and run my thumb across his face where I (or Nathan) once saw a scar. Has that future changed or will the scar still come? And can I do anything to help him when it does?

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," he says, his voice quivering. My hand is in his hair now, running through it gently. I didn't dare touch him for the longest time but I sense he needs it now.

"Don't do this, Peter. Don't give up. We will find a way out of here and I'll save your friend Emma. I promise."

"I thought…" He shifts on his feet while still letting my hand stay close. "You think everyone is dead," he reminds me. "You said that we were trapped here forever. Maybe… you're right."

"No. We _will_ break down that wall and get out." I sound so certain of this that it surprises both of us. "You're not alone in this, Peter."

I brush my thumb down his face again. I think of the three years I spent here before Peter came along. I decide that I will help him get us out no matter how long it takes. I will be a hero. I will keep that scar from coming. I will make sure he never feels alone.

Peter smiles, gently pulling away from my hand. "I know. Neither are you."


	14. Fourteen

**Fourteen**

Every day I go to the wall hoping this time I'll manage to break through. Still no change but I just come back the next day and try again. Peter works beside me the whole time. He starts bringing the food and water bottles, and encourages me away from work.

I like it when he touches my arm to get my attention.

Whenever I'm alone for long stretches of time, Peter eventually shows up to keep me company. I don't mention this out loud but I know it means Peter thinks about me.

One day while walking through the city I find Peter stretched out on a park bench. I think at first that he's fallen asleep but then I notice his eyes are covered by sunglasses and he-

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

"Relaxing." He stretches a bit more and shifts on the bench. I stare at him, feeling my mouth going dry. Why is he…?

"Quit screwing around," I tell him harshly. "We need to get back to the wall."

"What's your problem?" he demands, pulling off his sunglasses with a frown.

"I just want to get back to work," I snap back. I stalk away from him and once I get to the wall I start hitting it as hard as I can. Peter joins me later but I focus on the wall. No matter how hard I try I can't block that image from my mind.

Dammit, Peter.

Peter's mood turns for the worse. We yell at each other over nothing and get into shoving matches. The wall takes the brunt of our anger. It stubbornly stays up as we wear ourselves out.

We sit together with our backs against the wall, our muscles aching. Peter is so close to me I can nudge my shoulder against his.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"For what?" For being annoyingly attractive or for flaunting your naked torso in my face? I would really love to strangle him either way but instead I wait for his own answer.

"For slacking off. I thought you wanted me to relax, but…"

"Peter…" God, he's oblivious. "It's fine," I sigh out. "We'll still relax." I shift closer so we're touching. He doesn't discourage me.

How do you make love stay? You don't. You just love, and hope that it wants to stay on its own.


	15. Fifteen

**Fifteen**

I'm in Hell.

I thought I knew that already, but this is so much worse now. Now there are crooked smiles and hazel eyes. Four years with no end in sight.

When we're resting I notice how his shirt fits on his body. He drops his head and his hair gets in his eyes. I can remember what it feels like to have his weight on me.

Definitely worse than Hell.

"Aren't you tired of that book yet?"

"No." I keep my eyes focused on the page. The Pillars of the Earth again.

"So, is it the sex scene?"

"No." I've marked the pages, so I could find the scene if Peter asks. Eventually he turns away to get back to the wall. I keep reading until he seems absorbed in his work and then I join him.

How much longer will we be here? I've changed and I'm ready to leave, but apparently that's not enough. Truthfully a small part of me worries what will happen once we get out. I can't lose Peter.

His birthday is coming up and I decide to get him something _really_ special. Something that will make his eyes light up and a smile to come. So I find the perfect thing and bring it to him without mentioning the occasion.

"What's this?" he asks as I hand him the box.

"Just open it," I tell him. He does, and looks even more puzzled by the contents.

"A thimble?"

"Yes." I wait for him to look excited or maybe just impressed. Instead he just puts the thimble in his pocket.

"Thank you." That really should be enough, but it isn't. I feel like punching him. My hands start to clench into fists and I'm forced to walk away.

He's so frustrating. At least there's an entire city to give me space to cool down. I thought for sure he would like the gift. It couldn't have upset him… could it? Damn.

Some time later Peter comes to join me. He sits so close I can feel the entire length of his arm against mine. Maybe he's not angry. But then, why didn't he like my gift?

"You're taking a break," I note in an effort to start conversation. "Are you tired?"

"A little." His hair is getting in his eyes and my hand lifts automatically to brush it back, but then I reconsider. Peter tilts his head up to look at me. "What?" He notices, of course. My old self wouldn't hesitate in taking what I want. But I've changed and I don't do that anymore.

"Nothing." He looks annoyed and I can't help but feel a little pleased.

"You're impossible."

"Look who's talking," I retort. He rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out. So mature, Peter. I give him a little shove so I'm no better. Peter digs in his pocket and lets the thimble roll between his fingers.

"I love this," he mentions.

"Good." I finally see that light in his eyes, and we both smile.


	16. Sixteen

**Sixteen**

My back is up against the wall while I wait for Peter. He shows up and I notice he's made the thimble into a necklace, and he plays with it with a smile on his face. Quickly he tucks it underneath his collar but I've already seen.

"You're in a good mood," I point out.

"I have a good feeling about today," he answers.

"So do I." I pull out the thimble and run my thumb over it. The thimble's metal feels cool between my fingers. My eyes flicker up to Peter's face. I'm already in Hell; what do I have to lose?

I gently tug on his necklace chain and dip my head down. His lips meld against mine and for once I lose all concept of time. I'm highly aware of _him_: the soft shape of his mouth, every strand of hair that I run through my fingers. My teeth worry his lip and I taste him.

Peter's hand touches my arm. I can't tell if he's encouraging me or trying to push me away. Uncertain, I pull back and watch him questioningly. He isn't yelling or punching me in the face. Encouraging.

"And here I thought this would be the only kiss you'd ever give me," Peter remarks, fingering the thimble around his neck.

"I thought you would like it better, Peter Pan," I tell him playfully.

"I liked it," he responds as he tucks the thimble back under his collar, "but the other one was better." But he doesn't kiss me back. He picks up his hammer and gets to work.

I join him, humming a little as we work.

The kiss stays with me all day. I lick my lips and think of how Peter's felt, remembering his taste. I wonder if he's thinking about it too?

Later I decide to take a break. I go to the park and sit in the grass. It doesn't take long before Peter joins me.

"I can't stop thinking about that kiss," he says.

"Me neither." I wait, trying to not look too anxious. He sits down in front of me and leans over, capturing my mouth in a kiss. The strength behind it surprises me, and it only takes a moment for me to feel his tongue brush against my lip.

Holy shit. I can't breathe but I don't want to pull away. I feel Peter shift closer and somehow I end up on my back with his weight on me. No nail gun this time.

"Peter…?" I meet his eyes uncertainly.

"I waited four years for you to kiss me," he says quietly. "If I have to wait any longer for more, I'm going to go crazy." He has a determined glint in his eyes that makes it hard to argue. … Not that I would try.

"This is going to change everything," I murmur in a strained voice.

"Yes," Peter agrees as he shifts to get comfortable. "It's a brave new world."


	17. Seventeen

**Seventeen**

I remember something Peter told me very early on in our stay: we are the only things that are real in this place. He aggressively assures me of that fact.

Sometimes I think about what will happen when we break out. It's easy to repent when I have no temptation, and I know it will be a daily struggle once we escape. But I think I can fight it.

Peter is mine now. No one knows him the way I do, and if I lost him I'm sure I would lose everything I built up since he arrived.

I can't be a killer again. I won't.

The wall still stands. What will it take to bring it down? Brute force is not enough, and even now that I'm mentally ready we're still trapped.

"Why is this wall still here?" I wonder. I can't help but speak my thoughts out loud, probably due to this entire world being supposedly in my mind.

"What?"

"The wall," I repeat, placing my hand on it for emphasis. "Why is it still here? We've been hitting it with sledgehammers for years and there's not even a crack. Why aren't we making any progress?"

"How should I know?" Peter demands a bit testily. "We just have to keep trying. You _do_ want to get out of here, don't you?"

I understand why he has to ask. I don't have the hunger in this place, no one to see me as a killer. Plus I have Peter. This world is better for me.

"Yes," I respond. "I want to get out." I know I can only prove that I've repented if I face the real world.

"Good. Then let's get back to work."

We get back to work. What else can we do? That wall isn't going to go away with positive thinking or clicking our heels three times or magic words. I really don't know _how_ it's going to go down.

I sit staring at the wall, trying to understand it. Usually I can understand how everything works. But this wall is a complete mystery. It doesn't make any logical sense for it to still be standing.

"You look like you need a break." Peter comes up behind me and tries to guide me up on my feet. "Stare at that wall any longer and you'll go crazy."

"Wouldn't want that," I answer with an amused twist of my mouth.

Peter drags me away from the wall and thoroughly distracts me. I have no coherent thoughts for a long time.

Later I watch him hunt for his clothes and I start to wonder…

"Peter, why is the wall still here?" He has his back to me, pulling on his pants.

"I don't know."

I fall silent after that but I know him too well. I know he's lying.


	18. Eighteen

**Eighteen**

Admittedly I'm not big on cuddling, which turns out to be for the best since apparently Peter isn't either. I always assumed he would be but once we finish he always pulls away.

It bothers me a little but I don't say anything.

Something I noticed about time in this place: it's moving differently since Peter and I grew physically closer. When we're together it could be hours or days and I wouldn't know the difference. I don't care, either.

Watching him get dressed is interesting. He always gets dressed first.

"I'm going to go walk around for a while," he tells me once his shirt is back on his body. "Will you meet me by the wall?"

"Of course." He takes his jacket and walks off. I don't know why he still wears that thing. Especially when it's just one more thing to take off later.

I go by the wall and start working on it without Peter. Nothing happens but it's nice to expel some energy. It grows tiresome when I'm the only one there and I stop, pacing back and forth in front of the wall. The sun sets and Peter's not there. I almost go look for him but then I remember he wants to meet me here.

So I sit down and wait. Night falls and the moon comes out, and still Peter isn't here.

I feel something pat my back and I turn in time to see Peter walk by me. He drops a book in my lap. "Happy birthday."

"It's not my birthday," I point out.

"Yeah," Peter says. "I know. You just wore out your other copy, and I saw that one digging around." The title gleams out in gold lettering on the book's binding: The Pillars of the Earth. My book. "I appreciate you being patient with me," Peter continues. "Keeping me sane."

"It's very kind of you, Peter," I murmur. "Thank you." I caress the cover fondly. It's the first real gift Peter's given me in all these years. Peter picks up his sledgehammer and I can't help my thoughts becoming vocal: "You want to know something weird? Every time you pick that thing up I think you're going to hit me with it, really hard."

"That _is_ weird," Peter agrees with an amused noise. "Because every time I pick it up, I feel like I'm gonna hit you with it, too, really hard."

"Why?" I ask, trying not to sound too hurt. Or annoyed.

"Because you are who you are." What the hell kind of reason is that? "I wish I could accept your apologies. But if I forgive you, then I'm not doing right by him."

"Nathan," I clarify, speaking the forbidden name. Neither of us have brought him up in so long and Peter chooses now. I feel even more annoyed. "If you let go of your anger, you're afraid you'll lose him forever. So you've held onto it this entire time?"

"I feel it slipping away," he admits quietly, "but then I look at you and I see you killing him." I can't believe I'm hearing this. Did he feel this way even in the middle of our intimate moments? "You took my brother away from me."

I don't even feel like apologizing. All the pieces are coming together and I'm beginning to understand. It frustrates me, and Peter of course avoids the issue by focusing on the wall.

"We've been here for I don't know how many years, together." I emphasize the word but he doesn't even slow down. My words keep coming, trying to break through to him. "I've changed. I've repented. I'm never going to hurt anyone ever again. And all this time, you were afraid to let me out." Still ignoring me, so I step in the path of his sledgehammer. Let him hit me.

"Peter! I'm not that guy anymore, Peter. You know that."

He stops, taking deep breaths. Our eyes meet. Believe me. Please believe in me. I don't care if anyone else does as long as Peter knows the truth.

"I know," he answers at last. "I know you're not."

He swings his sledgehammer and a piece breaks away. That's never happened. We look at each other in surprise and then start hitting that wall for all we're worth. Large sections of wall are crumbling at our feet. I can see light breaking through.

We're getting out. This isn't Hell after all. The wall is coming down. Finally.

I don't know what's on the other side of that wall, but I do know I can face it.


	19. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

We stand together and watch her climb up the Ferris Wheel. No one moves to stop her. Most don't know what to expect. But we do, and we still stand by. Maybe deep down we all want this to happen.

"This is going to change everything," Peter says.

"Yes," I agree, and I can't help the smile that forms as I remember these words from another time and place. "It's a brave new world."

Later Peter and I walk together through Central Park. I look for the statue but of course it isn't here. This is the real world, and now that Emma is safe I'm starting to feel worried.

"What do we do now?" I wonder.

"I don't know." Peter looks thoughtful, then lets out a sudden laugh and I look at him quizzically. "I lost the thimble," he tells me.

"That's all right," I assure him. "I left the book."

"We can always get them back."

"You would want another thimble, Peter Pan?" I ask cautiously. It feels strange to call him by that name here in the real world. But right at the same time.

"Yeah," Peter answers at last. "I think I would." He sticks his hands in his pockets and walks on. I follow by his side.

There are no dreams or paintings to guide our next move. The future is unknown. But I saved Emma and Peter is still with me. That has to count for something.

_~fin_


End file.
